


Lullaby of Birdland

by Callie



Series: Farm AU [2]
Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-12 18:37:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1195332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie/pseuds/Callie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma hated being sick and never wants to go through that again, but having her dad here and spending time at Christmas with her dad and Mac was so good. It was like they were a family, like she had a normal family, almost, and she misses that so bad it hurts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is not really a sequel to [There's No Handbook for the Rest of Your Life](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1012097), (also known as Farm AU) since it's still ongoing, but more of a concurrent story in a series. As I was writing that fic, Will's daughter Emma sort of took on a life of her own and demanded her own story, so here it is. The first chapter of this fic happens at the same time as the end of [chapter 11](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1012097/chapters/2400330).
> 
> If you're not into original characters and are just here for Will/Mac, then _Handbook_ can stand completely on its own without this fic; however, if you want to read _this_ fic, you should definitely read _Handbook_ because this references a lot from it.

_Never in my wordland could there be ways to reveal  
in a phrase how I feel_

\--"Lullaby of Birdland"

*****

_When you were a baby, sometimes the only way to get you to sleep was to put you in the car and drive around town until you fell asleep. Something about the motion of the car soothed you enough that you stopped crying. There were so many nights that your mother and I would just ride around and around town in circles. (One time we made the mistake of going through the Burgerville drive-through when we thought you were asleep. You weren't, and you screamed and cried until we got moving again.) Then when you finally fell asleep, we had to sit in the driveway for twenty minutes to be sure you were really asleep and weren't going to wake up as soon as we unfastened your car seat. Sometimes, if you were really cranky, we didn't risk taking you out of the car seat, not when you were really small and it was the little bucket car seat. We just picked up the car seat with you in it, took you inside, and put you in the car seat down by the bed so we'd know if you woke up._

"Hey, Emma?"

She closes her dad's memory book and shoves it under her pillow. "Yeah?"

Molly sticks her head in the door, hanging onto the doorframe as she leans in. "We're fixin' to go to breakfast. You coming?"

"No, I'm good. You go ahead." Emma manages a smile and waves her off. 

"Okay." Molly frowns a little but doesn't press, and when she's gone, Emma slides back under the comforter and pulls it over her head. Maybe she'll just go back to sleep.

*****

She wakes a little later, to the smell of something baking. Molly must be back. She's always baking something. Emma wants to go back to sleep but she has to pee, so she has to come out of the bedroom sometime. Maybe she can sneak through without Molly noticing.

No such luck. When she comes out of the bathroom, Molly is putting muffins on a plate and spots her before she can get back to the bedroom. "You're up!" she says cheerfully. "Since you didn't come to breakfast, I brought breakfast to you. Sit down." She steers Emma into a chair and before she knows it there is a plate of muffins and a glass of orange juice in front of her. "Do you want coffee? I can make coffee."

"No. It's okay. Juice is fine." Molly is hovering, twisting her hands together and pacing around, and Emma just wants her to be _still_ for a while. 

"I can make coffee, it's not a problem!"

"No, God." Emma knows she's being kind of a bitch and she hates it, but Molly is just too much for her right now. She kind of _does_ want coffee, actually--it's just that Molly is always doing stuff for her and Emma doesn't really have anything she can do to return the favor. She tries to temper her voice a little so she doesn't sound like her dad when he's cranky. "Seriously, it's okay. This is great, the muffins are great. You didn't have to do this."

"But I wanted to." Molly slides into the chair beside her at the table. "You're not getting sick again, are you?"

"No, I'm not sick." Emma still doesn't feel as good as she did before she was in the hospital, but she's definitely not sick. "I'm fine."

"But you didn't go to class Thursday and you slept all day Friday and Saturday and maybe you're going to sleep all day today," Molly says, and it's one of those rare moments when she's speaking softly--but it doesn't make her any less _intense_ , even if her southern drawl softens a little. Somehow, it really gets to Emma; her eyes water and her throat feels tight.

"I'm just tired," she says. "And I'm tired of being tired." She picks up a muffin and peels at the paper wrapper but doesn't eat it. 

"Maybe you could go see MacKenzie," Molly suggests. "She doesn't work on the weekends, right? You could go over and see her. It would get you out of the dorm for a while."

Emma shakes her head. "She's visiting my dad this weekend," she says, and just mentioning her father does her in. She pushes the plate away and puts her head on the table so Molly can't see her cry. Emma hated being sick and never wants to go through that again, but having her dad here and spending time at Christmas with her dad and Mac was so good. It was like they were a family, like she had a normal family, almost, and she misses that so bad it hurts. Her dad was happy and Mac was happy and it was just the three of them even if Emma didn't feel like doing anything but laying there on the couch all day. And now Mac is in Oregon with her dad and Emma's glad they're getting their shit together but Emma just wants to go _home_. 

She hears Molly's chair scrape against the linoleum floor and she hopes that Molly isn't going to try to hug her. Emma doesn't like being hugged. It's okay if it's her dad or MacKenzie and it was okay for her mom, but she doesn't like anyone else touching her. Maybe other people find it comforting, but Emma just feels like it makes everything worse instead of better. Emma pushes her chair back and gets up before Molly has a chance to do anything. "Where did Phyllis and Rachel go?" she says. She doesn't even care where their suitemates are, really, she just doesn't want to talk about how tired she is or how much she misses her dad. 

"They went to K-Mart after breakfast," Molly says; she's clearly surprised by the sudden change of conversation but trying to keep up. "They had to buy some stuff. I don't know."

"Okay." Emma's just standing there and she doesn't know whether to sit down and eat or leave or--well, she doesn't know what the alternatives are. She could probably think of something if she didn't feel all jumbled up inside. "I'm just going to--" She picks up the plate of muffins and goes into their bedroom, closing the door behind her.

Molly doesn't bother her for the rest of the day. Emma hides in their room, eating muffins and trying to do theory homework, but she can't make herself care about dominant seventh chords and non-chord tones. Her phone pings and it's a text from her father; one of the cows had twins and he sent her a picture of them. They're small, with knobby legs and huge, soft eyes. _MacKenzie named them Bonnie and Blue_ , his text says. 

_good names,_ she texts back, and shoves the phone in her desk drawer.

*****

When she comes out of her room later, there's no sign of Molly. Phyllis and Rachel are in the living area, trying to put together a tv stand. At least that's what Emma thinks it is; it's hard to tell, since there is a possibility they are putting it together wrong. Also, she's not sure why they got a tv stand when none of them has a tv. (Emma doesn't watch much tv; when she watches MacKenzie's show she watches it on her laptop.) "What is that?"

"It's a tv stand," says Phyllis from behind an instruction booklet that appears to be written in ten different languages, none of which look like English.

"But nobody has a tv."

"I'm getting one tomorrow," Rachel says. "If we can get this together. No, look, I think it goes like this. See, this piece goes over here and then you use these little dowels?"

"But the book has screws, not dowels. See, look. No dowels."

They don't notice Emma slipping out. She goes downstairs to see if there's any practice rooms available (it's really nice to have practice rooms in your dorm; if she had to leave the building to practice, she just wouldn't practice very much). The doors have glass panels in them so it's easy to see if the room is occupied, and they're supposed to be soundproof but they really aren't. At least, it doesn't sound like it from in the hall. 

Molly is in a room at the far end of the hall; Emma doesn't need a glass panel in the door to know she's there, because the supposed soundproofing is not enough to contain her voice. Emma doesn't know anything about singing but she's not sure how someone as small at Molly could make so much sound. Even through the closed door, her voice has a clear ring to it that cuts through the din of sounds coming from the rest of the practice rooms and makes them all sound like random noise.

It's kind of rude to interrupt someone when they're practicing, but Emma feels crappy about this morning and will continue to feel crappy about it until she apologizes. So she waits until it sounds like Molly is finished with one song and about to start working on another, then knocks softly.

Thankfully, Molly doesn't look annoyed by the interruption. "Hey," she says, leaning against the open door. "You want this room? I'm almost done."

"No, it's okay, I can wait," Emma says. "I just, uh… about this morning, I'm sorry. I was kind of, I don't know."

"It's okay." Molly glances past Emma for a second, sighs, then tugs at Emma's wrist, pulling her into the practice room. "That guy out there was looking like he wants this room," she says, "so sit down at the bench so it looks like we're practicing."

"Oh," Emma says, and sits.

"Anyway, it's okay. We all have crappy moods sometimes. It happens."

Emma doesn't feel like she's sufficiently apologized, but it doesn't feel like Molly is really going to let her, so she sighs and lets it drop. She glances at the music on the piano; it's a lead sheet for _Lullaby of Birdland_. "I didn't know you were into jazz," Emma says. 

"Kind of?" Molly sits beside her on the bench, bumping her with her hip so she'll move over a little. "I like musical theatre the best and that's what my major is, but my teacher is making me do a little of everything. Art songs, arias, jazz… you know. To be well-rounded or something. Do you know this song?"

"Yeah. We did an arrangement in high school once, but it was instrumental. I've never done it with a singer before."

"Play it for me?"

"I haven't done it in a long time," Emma says, "and this is in a different key, I think." It's not a hard piece at all, and the changes are pretty regular, but she's suddenly nervous about playing in front of Molly on top of her general weird feeling about playing in a practice room where anyone can just stand out there in the hall and listen. Emma always feels like someone's judging her--which is stupid because it's a _practice_ room, not a concert hall, but she feels a little uncomfortable knowing other people can hear her mistakes. It was different at home; there was no one to hear her but her dad, and he thought she was great no matter what she did, but here, the ears everywhere are inhibiting.

"Please?"

"I'm not really an accompanist…"

"Come on. Just once? I haven't even been able to practice with my accompanist yet, I'll make a fool out of myself when I do. I haven't done a lot of jazz, I don't know how to just, you know. Let it go." Molly looks down, twisting a curl of her hair around her finger. "I get so, I don't know. If I'm singing and I have my music in front of me, you know, hiding behind a music stand, I'm okay, and I can sing. I'm good at singing. But I can't _perform_. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah," Emma says softly. "I know." She reaches up and slides the music a little closer, then carefully feels out the first phrase, taking the chords out of time. 

Molly's always doing stuff for her. Maybe this is one thing she can do in return. 

"Give me an eight beat intro?" 

"I'll do the whole first phrase. How's this tempo?" Emma plays through the first phrase, and Molly nods, so she vamps a little more and repeats the phrase again as an intro, putting a little more left hand into it to keep the tempo bright. She thinks about telling Molly to get off the bench, because she's not used to sharing the bench while she plays, but then Molly starts singing and Emma decides she doesn't care even if Molly really has a voice that's too big to be this close.

It's nice.

_Lullaby of birdland_  
 _That's what I always hear,_  
 _When you sigh,_  
 _Never in my wordland could there be ways to reveal_  
 _in a phrase how I feel_

_Have you ever heard two turtle doves_  
 _Bill and coo, when they love?_  
 _That's the kind of magic music we make with our lips_  
 _When we kiss_

_And there's a weepy old willow_  
 _He really knows how to cry,_  
 _That's how I'd cry in my pillow_  
 _If you should tell me farewell and goodbye_

_Lullaby of birdland whisper low_  
 _Kiss me sweet, and we'll go_  
 _Flying high in birdland, high in the sky up above_  
 _All because we're in love_

It's really good, but it feels a little off to Emma--it's too bright and too big--so when she takes the solo section she pulls the tempo down slightly, playing just a little _less_ , playing with a little less sparkle and more warmth. She glances at Molly and she nods and when Molly comes in again it's like she shifts into a lower gear. Her voice mellows, becoming a little more intimate without going flat, even as it builds through the bridge.

_Lullaby...lullaby..._

_Have you ever heard two turtle doves_  
 _Bill and coo, when they love?_  
 _That's the kind of magic music we make with our lips_  
 _When we kiss_

_And there's a weepy old willow_  
 _He really knows how to cry_  
 _That's how I'd cry in my pillow_  
 _If you should tell me farewell and goodbye_

_Lullaby of birdland whisper low_  
 _Kiss me sweet, and we'll go_  
 _Flying high in birdland, high in the sky up above_  
 _All because we're in love_

It's one of those moments when Emma doesn't want the music to be over, and she waits until the last notes of the piano stop ringing before she slides her fingers from the keys. 

"Oh," Molly says, after a minute. "That was… gosh. That was fun."

"Yeah, it was." Emma feels her face soften into a grin. "You're really good."

"Well, I wasn't--I mean, I had someone good to back me up," she says. "It helped, you know, having someone there to give me the feel of it. It didn't feel like just practicing. It was like real music. God, I wish it could be that way all the time." Molly slides off the bench and starts gathering up her things; her cheeks are pink, Emma notices, like she's been outside in the cold. "I should let you practice."

"You were here first," Emma says. "I can wait for another room, if you're not done…"

"No, I'm good for now." Molly drops her stack of music and Emma tries to help her pick it up, but Molly waves her off. "I've been here a while, my voice is kind of tired now. I think I'll go have some tea. Hot tea. It's good for your voice. I don't like it as much as iced tea, but hot is better when your voice is tired. So is not talking. Which I'm not doing. I'm not not talking, and I should stop doing it. Just stop talking. God." She finally gathers up all her music and hurries out the door.

Emma's not entirely sure what happened, but with Molly gone, the small practice room seems even more small and drab.

*****

Sunday nights are Emma's usual time to call her father, but tonight she calls MacKenzie's cell. She wants to talk to her dad, but she wants to talk to MacKenzie, first.

"Hi, honey," MacKenzie answers. "Did you want to talk to your father? He's right here, I can put him on for you."

"No," Emma says. "I mean, yes I want to talk to him, but I want to talk to you, too."

"Well, that's all right," MacKenzie says. "How are you? How is school?"

"School is--" She wants to say that school is miserable and her roommate is confusing and she just wants to come home, but if she tells MacKenzie, then MacKenzie will just tell her father and then he'll worry and she's tired of people worrying about her. "--great," she finishes. "Really good. Everything's great."

"Well, that's fantastic. I'm glad to hear it." 

"I just wanted to ask you…"

MacKenzie waits for her to finish her sentence, and when she doesn't, she says, "Ask me what?"

 _Nevermind_ , Emma thinks. She isn't even sure what she wants to ask. "If we could have lunch together when you get back," she says. 

"Of course, honey," MacKenzie says. "What about Wednesday? Tuesday I'll be busy, playing catch-up. But Wednesday should be fine. Do you want me to send a car for you?"

"I can take the subway," Emma says. Mac sends a car for her sometimes and people talk; they know her dad is dating a producer at ACN even if Emma didn't really tell anybody. She doesn't like people knowing her business. (It's not that anyone cares, either, except maybe TMI and _ACN Morning_ since they already gossiped about MacKenzie before; that's not the point.)

"Then I'll see you Wednesday, all right? I'm going to give you to your father now, he's acting like it's been a hundred years since he's talked to you instead of just a week."

There's a little shuffle and then her dad's voice is on the line. "Hey, kiddo," he says. Whenever they talk, he always sounds so happy to hear from her. "I miss you."

Emma swallows down a rush of homesickness. "I miss you too, Daddy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are about a million different versions of _Lullaby of Birdland_ out there, with Ella Fitzgerald's being probably the most iconic; Nikki Yanofsky's version is probably the closest to how I imagine Molly's voice.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter follows [Chapter 12](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1012097/chapters/2468182) of _There's No Handbook for the Rest of Your Life_. Thanks for reading!

On Tuesday, Emma helps her father with the morning's farm chores, then borrows his car and goes into town. She drives around randomly for a little while, trying to work up her nerve and make up her mind, then turns the car downtown towards the university campus. There's metered parking on the street and she digs some quarters out of her purse to feed the meter--an hour ought to be enough for what she wants to do, but she puts in enough for an hour and a half, just in case.

The school of music seems mostly empty, except for a handful of students and professors drifting through the halls; they must be on spring break now too, she thinks. There's a reception desk behind a little sliding glass window which the receptionist is quick to open. "Hi there," she says. "How can I help you?"

Emma twists the strap of her purse in her fingers. "I go to school in New York and I was wondering--I wanted to talk to someone about transferring here next year." She hasn't actually said it out loud before. Really, it's only been a half-baked, kind of nebulous idea up to this point, and it's only the knowledge that she only has a few days here before she has to go back to school that's pushing her into it now.

It feels weird to say it now, and she's not sure if she's comfortable with it.

"Oh, that's great," says the receptionist. "Hold on a second, let me see if someone's upstairs that you can talk to." She turns to the phone, asks a few questions, then turns back to Emma. "If you go right up these stairs and down the hall, you'll see the Advising office on the right."

Emma thanks her and goes up the stairs, finding the office easily. A young dark-haired woman with a tiny nose ring comes out to greet her.

"Hi there," she says. "I'm Katherine. It's nice to meet you."

"I'm Emma. Emma McAvoy."

"Well come on in, Emma," she says, waving her into her brightly-lit office. "So you're thinking about transferring? Where do you go to school right now?"

"NYU. I'm a freshman."

"Your name sounds familiar. Did you apply here last year?"

Emma nods. "Yeah," she says.

"Hmm. Okay." Katherine adjusts her computer monitor and types in some information, then skims the screen quickly. "Well, it looks like you had a great piano audition here last year, and were accepted into the jazz studies program. Our audition dates for this year have already come and gone, but your audition is valid for a year, so you wouldn't need to audition again. You would need to send us your transcripts from NYU and complete an application update and a new personal statement to restart the admissions process. As long as you've made sufficient progress in your current program, there shouldn't be any problems with getting you readmitted. I do have to warn you," she adds, "not all of your coursework will directly transfer."

"I have a transcript if you want to see it," Emma says, pulling the folded papers out of her purse. "Not an official one or anything, I just printed off from Albert."

"Sure, let me take a look." Katherine unfolds the transcript sheets and studies them for a moment. "Music history, aural skills, keyboard skills, lessons, ensemble… good, good. We don't automatically grant transfer credit for some of these courses--you'll have to take a placement exam for core classes, but if you're doing well it shouldn't be a problem. Those exams are given in the fall." She carefully refolds the sheets and slides them back across the desk to Emma. "Do you mind if I ask why you're considering transferring? Your transcripts look good, at least from what I can see of your first semester there, so it doesn't look like you're having academic difficulty."

"No, my grades are fine, I guess. I just…" Why _does_ she want to do this? "I thought living in New York would be different. It's good, but it's… far away and I miss home."

Katherine smiles softly. "I think I would miss home if I was that far away too. Of course we'd love to have you here, and if you really want to transfer, we'll do everything we can to make that happen. But I just want to make sure you _really_ want to transfer, and that whatever is making you unhappy with NYU isn't something that will also make you unhappy here--otherwise, you'll probably drop out, and that's not good for you or for the school. Have you talked to your parents about transferring?"

"It's just me and my dad," Emma says. "I haven't talked to him. Not yet."

"It's probably a good idea to include him in this discussion," Katherine says. "When you're ready, of course. In the meantime, I have a few things I can give you to help you sort things out." She taps a few buttons on her computer. "Your email is still emma.mcavoy@gmail.com?" Emma nods. "Okay. I'm going to send you a couple of links to some questionnaires I give students sometimes to help them figure out things like this. I don't see the results, your dad won't see the results unless you show him. This is just to help you organize your thoughts about transferring, to make sure it's the right decision for you. Here's my card. Let me know what you decide to do, okay? And good luck with the rest of your semester."

Emma leaves the office feeling a little dizzy from all the information, but she feels a little better, too. Somehow, knowing Oregon still wants her is nice, and she likes the way Katherine didn't try to talk her into anything right away. No pressure. The last thing Emma wants right now is more pressure.

*****

When she gets back to the house, there's a text message from Molly on her phone. _How is Oregon?_

 _Rainy_ , Emma replies. _Going to drown. NY?_

_Same. Worked last night. P &R had party in dorm. Is fucking MESS. Some1 ripped labels off I put on recycle bins. There is glass in with paper!!! NOT OK. :(_

Emma doesn't have to hide a laugh since Molly can't see her. Only Molly would make handmade signs with stamps and markers to label each section of the recycling bin. _Noooo! so wrong._

_I know! R said she would fix. We'll see. MStew has chlkbrd labels I like._

_Ok no. If you go crazy with recycling I'm sending you to Portland & you can label everything._

_What?_

_Hold on._ She can't believe Molly has never seen that Portlandia show that makes fun of Portland mostly but also Oregon in general. Emma pulls up youtube and searches around a bit before replying, _https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HLJYQaoLgag if you do this we have a problem_.

_OMG LOOK AT ALL THE COLORED BINS!_

_no no no. do not get any ideas._

_SO ORGANIZED!_

_It's satire. Or parody. Whichever one makes fun of people. It's not real!_

_BUT IT CAN BE!_

_Ok look. You get glass, paper, plastic. Three bins. More than that and we're having an intervention._

_:P_

*****

The rain lets up on Thursday and after the morning chores, Will and Emma drive over to Spencer Butte for a hike. It's another thing they haven't done in a while, and Emma has forgotten how beautiful it is. She's also a little out of practice at hiking, so she's a little winded by the time they get to the top of the butte even though it's not that bad of a hike.

"You okay?" her father asks.

"Yeah," she says, huffing a little. "I'm just going to sit here for a while." The top of the butte is treeless, but the early spring weather means the sun is just warm and not hot, and she sits on one of the large rocks scattered around. It's clear enough that the view is great, even though it's not quite clear enough to see all the way to the Sisters. 

Her dad sits on the ground nearby, leaning back against a rock. "You've been pretty quiet all week," he says. "Something wrong?"

"It's only Thursday," she says. "So you can't say _all_ week. I could be more talkative."

"You know what I mean." He pulls his water bottle out of his backpack and flips it open. "You've been sleeping a lot and you haven't had a lot to say. I don't know if I can send you back to school unless I know you're all right. Are you sure you're feeling okay?"

"You sound like Molly," Emma grumbles.

"Doesn't that tell you something? If I'm asking, and she's asking, then maybe we're seeing something." He takes a long drink from his water bottle. "I'm not really so good with the talking stuff. Maybe your mother would have been better at it, I don't know. But even though I kind of suck at it, you know you can still talk to me, right? Or to MacKenzie. She cares about you, too. You know that, right?"

"Yeah, I know." Emma props one foot up on her knee so she can mess with her shoelaces. And then her dad just sits there, like he's waiting for her to talk--she'd almost rather he nag her because then it's easier to put him off, but he doesn't. He just sits there and waits, looking out across the view of the whole city of Eugene, and finally she can't take the silence anymore. "I went over to the university the other day. To Oregon. To see what I would have to do to transfer."

"Transfer as in… transfer to Oregon."

"Yeah."

Her father leans over and rests his elbows on his knees and while Emma can't really see his face, she's pretty sure he's frowning. "Are you not doing well in school? Did something happen I don't know about? Because you said NYU was your dream school."

"It was. I mean, it is. And I'm doing fine. My grades are good. I just… I don't know."

Her father turns to look at her and yeah, he's frowning, but it's more confused than pissed. "Well, this is a pretty big decision, so I hope you have a better reason than 'I don't know.' I mean, I'd be happy to have you at home and it would be a hell of a lot cheaper for you to go to school in-state, but you worked your ass off to get into NYU and I don't want you to throw that away if you don't even know why you want to do it."

"I know."

"You know you have opportunities in New York that you wouldn't even come close to having here."

"I know."

"And you know your grandparents will pay your tuition no matter where you go."

"I know." She's their only grandchild and they've felt extra-responsible for her since her mother died. They don't say so, but Emma knows it anyway.

"So what's the problem?"

Emma struggles to find words to describe what's really bugging her. _Homesick_ sounds stupid and babyish and while there's more to it than just homesickness, she doesn't know how to put it into words. Finally she just shrugs and gestures at the view from the butte--Eugene, the mountains, everything. "All of this," she says. "I miss all of this. I miss football games and how it rains all winter and how it's all green and pretty in the summer and I miss the farm and the cows and how the hay smells when you stack it up in the barn. And New York is so big and noisy and it's too much, all the time. The city's too big, the school's too big, I don't even know the names of half the people in my classes. I have to wait for a practice room and then people are sitting in the hall listening and I feel like an idiot."

Her dad sighs and pats the ground beside him. "Come here," he says, and Emma slides off the rock to sit beside him. "I can't even pretend to know what it's like to be so far away from home, because I lived at home when I went to school and I've never lived any farther away than Portland."

"I know." She leans against his shoulder and he puts his arm around her.

"So I don't know what to tell you. I want you to think carefully about this, kiddo. Don't just jump to it."

"I haven't decided," Emma says. "I just talked to an advisor and she said I wouldn't have to audition again. That's all. I didn't do an application or sign anything."

"Good." He squeezes her shoulder. "If you want to come home, you know I'm not gonna say no to that. But if you come home for the wrong reasons, you'll just hate school even more and I don't want that to happen."

"You sound like the advisor I talked to," Emma says. "That's pretty much what she said."

"Really? Huh. Maybe I have a brilliant career ahead of me in academic advising," he says. "What do you think?"

"I think you should stick with being a dad," Emma teases. "You're really good at it."

"Yeah?" He seems pleased by this. "Well, I'm glad you think so." He gets up, grumbling about his knees a little, then takes her hand to help her up. "Come on. Let's go home."

*****

_When are you coming back?_

_Saturday. Mac is picking me up at the airport._

_Have to work Saturday night. Breakfast Sunday?_

_Yep._

_Oh I wanted to ask. Have to sing Birdland in studio in 2 weeks. I have an accompanist but I like the way you play it better. Can you play for me? Tues at 3._

_Sure._ Emma's not an accompanist, but she liked playing for Molly that time and doesn't mind doing it again. It's a fun piece and she likes the style. _Just remind me._

_K. See you Sunday. :D_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place after Emma returns to New York after spring break, but before the Genoa-related events of [Chapter 13](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1012097/chapters/2519773) of _There's No Handbook for the Rest of Your Life_. 
> 
> This chapter is for [Rachel](http://namastetoyoutoo.tumblr.com/), who requested "Farm au: Emma parties a little too hard and Mac takes care of her the next day. I know Emma's probably not a partier but maybe just once?" when I asked for drabble prompts one day. The resulting scenario was too good not to use in the fic, so here it is.

"Emma, can I borrow your theory book?"

Emma nods, not looking up from the music she's studying. "It's on my desk somewhere," she says, over the music she's listening to on her iPod. "Probably under that pile of stuff. Just dig around until you find it."

Molly disappears into their bedroom and Emma loses herself in the piece she's listening to for a few minutes until Molly reappears again, dropping beside her on the couch.

"You didn't find it?"

"No," Molly says, soft enough that Emma pulls out her earbuds so she can actually hear her. "I found this, though." She passes over the business card from the Oregon advising office, and Emma belatedly remembers she left that stuff out on her desk after working on her application.

"Oh."

"What's it for?"

Emma twists her earbuds around her finger. "I want to go home," she says. "This isn't what I thought it was going to be."

"It isn't what I thought it was going to be, either," Molly says, "but it's not bad. I mean…"

"It is," Emma says. "I don't fit in. There's nowhere I feel like I belong here."

"Me either," Molly says. She draws her feet up onto the couch and wraps her arms around her knees; her thick red hair falls over her shoulder and obscures most of her face from Emma's view. "Well, most of the time. Nobody takes me seriously because I look like a fifth grader and sound like a redneck. I'm just a dumb southern girl." Her voice softens and she rests her chin against her knees. "But sometimes, I mean, it's good. Good enough that it's better than the stuff that sucks. Like when you brought that paper from the craft store for new labels for the recycling bins or we wake up late on the weekend and go to breakfast. Or when we're studying for stupid theory class and you explain something and I get it, or we're practicing together and it finally sounds good." 

"I meant school things," Emma says. "Not the other stuff."

Molly sighs and turns her face away. "College isn't just about classes, Emma," she says quietly. "There's things I like about going to school here and I thought maybe you liked them too." She unwraps her arms from around her knees and slides off the couch, going back into their bedroom.

Everything Molly just mentioned _liking_ about school has to do with her, Emma realizes. And they're all things she likes, too--it just never occurred to her that anything she does is actually important to anyone else, nevermind important enough to someone that those things are some of her favorite things about school.

She crosses the room and hesitates in the bedroom doorway; Molly is digging through her desk and pushing things around. "I like those things, too," Emma says quietly.

"You don't have to say you do if you don't," Molly says, shoving papers into a folder. Some of them fall out and hit the floor, but she doesn't stop to pick them up. "You--I don't feel dumb with you, and you're gonna go back to Oregon, and--" Her voice is tight and strained, like she's not sure whether she's pissed enough to yell or upset enough to cry and maybe a little bit of both is leaking through. "Just, forget it, okay?"

"I don't want to forget it," Emma says. "I just didn't know you liked hanging out with me that much. I'm sorry."

"I don't want to talk about it anymore. Just drop it." She drops the folder on top of a pile with a thud and ignores the loose papers that skitter across her desk. "I need to study." Molly picks up a book and slides into her desk chair, propping her head against her hand in a way that's clearly meant to shut Emma out.

"Fine," Emma says, bristling. She doesn't know why Molly is even mad at her, anyway. This is stupid. "I'm going out. I have rehearsal."

Molly doesn't answer. 

*****

Rehearsal turns out to be mechanical and boring, at least on Emma's part; she doesn't do anything _wrong_ , exactly, but it's not like she's really playing her best, either. She's too preoccupied with thinking about her conversation with Molly. 

When the rehearsal ends, the rest of the group starts talking about some party they're going to as they pack up their instruments. Emma doesn't talk to them much outside of rehearsal, because they're all upperclassmen and they probably don't have much in common, so she doesn't say anything as she's gathering up her music. But before she can leave, the bass player, Laura, says, "Got any plans for tonight, McAvoy?" Laura has large glasses with thick red frames, dark hair that's messy in the way that requires meticulous styling, and the annoying habit of calling everyone by their last name. 

"Uh, no," Emma says. "Not really." She feels she should have made up some fabulous imaginary plan like _oh, yeah, I actually have a gig at the Red Blazer, I should probably be going now_ instead of _I'm going back to my dorm to maybe study and definitely get the silent treatment from my roommate_ , because one of those things sounds busy and important and the other does not.

"You should come with us, then," she says. "Mark's having a party at his place." Mark is the lead trumpet who always smells vaguely like weed. He's usually leaning on something--a wall, a piano, a music stand--which Emma thinks probably has something to do with the fact that he always smells like weed.

"I don't really…"

"Suit yourself, McAvoy."

There's an air about Laura that's like she doesn't care whether Emma comes or not, which sort of makes Emma want to run very fast in the opposite direction, but also pisses her off a little bit, too. "Don't call me McAvoy," Emma says. "You sound like you're talking to my dad or something and it's weird. My name is Emma. Also, I'm coming with you." It's either that or find a place in Bobst to hibernate in until she's sure Molly's gone to sleep. 

(Or maybe she can hibernate there forever and never go back to the dorm. She heard about that guy that lived in the library for like a year because he couldn't afford to live anywhere else. Maybe she can do that.)

"Well then, Emma McAvoy, we'll meet you downstairs."

Emma puts her music in her locker and meets the rest of the group downstairs in front of the building. They take the subway in a direction Emma hasn't been before and it drops them off a few blocks away from Mark's apartment, where Emma immediately understands why Mark always smells like weed, because a few guys she assumes are his roommates are passing around a joint. One of the guys offers it to her and she says no thanks, then Laura offers her a red plastic cup of something fruity and alcoholic and she takes it. Drinking isn't really her thing, but she's tired of feeling like she doesn't belong and doesn't want to do anything that makes her look like a dumb country girl from hickville, like acting like she's too good to have a drink.

It's not too bad, actually, whatever it is, as long as she drinks it quickly and doesn't stop to taste it too much. She doesn't really know anyone at the party except Laura, who is soon occupied with making out with Mark in the corner of a living room, so Emma mostly hangs back and keeps refilling her cup because she really doesn't have anything else to do. She has a little of this and a little of that and even a beer or two even though she thinks they're kind of gross and after a while, she doesn't really care that no one is talking to her or that her roommate is mad at her or that she wishes she was three thousand miles away from here or that beer is really the nastiest beverage in existence. Every available seating surface in the apartment is occupied (anything larger than a chair contains people who are making out, which makes Emma weirdly uncomfortable in a disconnected sort of way--she doesn't think she could ever kiss someone where anyone else could see, and a couple of guys by the kitchen are clearly doing more than kissing) so she finds a spot on the floor between a TV and a sagging bookshelf and leans against the wall. That helps keep the room from spinning quite so much but doesn't stop it completely, and closing her eyes is even better. 

Other than the room-spinning feeling, she likes how it feels right now to not really care about anything. Maybe that was why her dad got so drunk that night he and MacKenzie broke up, she thinks--because it's so much easier not to care when your head is all buzzy. Her fight with Molly seems like it happened twenty years ago and really not all that important anymore.

She wakes up in a bathtub.

Emma doesn't remember leaving her little spot against the wall, but she must have at some point or, more likely, someone just _put_ her there, because she's in the empty tub and her t-shirt and jeans are spattered with vomit. Hers, judging by the disgusting feel of her mouth and the churning of her stomach. Sitting up doesn't help. It only brings on a wave of nausea that doesn't give her time to get to the toilet, so she pukes over the side of the tub until she doesn't have anything left in her stomach and it just hurts. There's nothing in the bathroom she can use to clean up--seriously, who doesn't even have toilet paper or towels in their bathroom?--so she leaves the mess and splashes water on her face and swishes out her mouth and still feels terrible. She tries to get some of the gunk off her shirt but all that accomplishes is making her shirt slimy and wet so she gives up.

The party really can't be called a party anymore; some people have left, and the rest are either passed out or sleeping and Emma has to step over them to make her way through the living room, which smells like spilled beer and burnt weed, to grab her jacket. The smell is about to make her puke again so she pushes her way out of the apartment and outside.

And she has no idea where she is.

Her wallet is not in her jacket and her phone is flashing a low battery warning at her, but maybe it's enough to make one call. 

"Emma? It's late. Are you all right, honey?"

"I went to a party," Emma says, "and I don't know where I am and I can't find my wallet and my phone is going to die and please don't be mad I'm sorry I called you so late."

"It's all right, Emma," MacKenzie says. "Tell me where you are and I'll come get you."

"I don't know."

"Look at the street signs," MacKenzie prompts her. "Or a building number. What's around you?"

"Um…" It takes her a moment to focus, but the address of Mark's building is visible near the entrance and she reads it to MacKenzie. 

"All right, I'll get a cab and I'll be there in a few minutes," MacKenzie says. "Don't move from that spot--"

Of course, that's when Emma's phone dies. She gives it a little shake, not that that's going to magically recharge it or anything, and stuffs it into her pocket. All she wants to do is lie down and close her eyes but that's not happening anytime soon. Her shirt is cold and gross and smelly and she zips up her jacket to cover it and that only sort of works. If her dad knew what she was doing he would probably yell at her. Or frown and say, _Emma, I'm very disappointed in you_ which would be worse. She hopes MacKenzie won't yell at her or be disappointed. She could take either of those things from her father, but not from MacKenzie.

When MacKenzie shows up in a cab a little while later, Emma feels like she might throw up again and really hopes she doesn't do it in the cab. The driver kind of looks like he's hoping she won't puke in the cab, too. "You're coming home with me," MacKenzie decides, and directs the driver to take them back to her apartment. "Are you all right?"

"I guess." Emma leans forward and rests her head on her knees (she thinks her hair might have vomit in it and she doesn't want to get the cab gross but she needs to put her head _somewhere_ ). "I am never drinking again."

"Yes, you will," MacKenzie says, and lightly rubs her back. "You'll just be smarter about it, next time. And you might even enjoy it."

"I don't think so." She breathes shallowly, trying to ignore how much she stinks and how much the cab is bumpity-bumping. Does New York City really have this many potholes or is she imagining it? "Are you going to tell my dad?"

"Not unless you've had so much to drink that I need to take you to the hospital," MacKenzie says, "which I really hope won't be necessary."

"I don't think so."

"Then I won't tell him. I'm neither your babysitter nor your mother, but I _am_ your friend. I'm glad you called me, Emma."

Emma just nods and hopes that the ride to Mac's apartment goes really fast. It doesn't, really (or maybe she just has a distorted sense of time) but she does manage not to throw up again, either in the cab or in the elevator or anywhere in MacKenzie's apartment. MacKenzie steers her to the kitchen table and puts a bottle of Gatorade in front of her. "Drink a little of this," MacKenzie says, "while I find some clean clothes for you, then you can take a shower and sleep it off."

She dutifully does as she's told, sipping only the tiniest of sips. It's bright blue and kind of nasty, but not as nasty as throwing up. MacKenzie takes some neatly folded clothes and towels into the guest bath. "Leave your clothes in the floor after you shower and I'll wash them," she suggests, then looks at her carefully. "Are you really all right?" she asks softly. "Nothing...happened to you at this party, did it?"

"What? No," Emma says quickly. "God, no. I'm fine. Nothing happened to me except losing my dignity, I guess."

MacKenzie relaxes a little. "Good, good. Go on then, have a shower. You'll feel better."

The shower does help, though she's a little dizzy after. She puts on the pajamas Mac left for her and debates using the toothbrush she's thoughtfully supplied--deciding against it in the end, afraid that if she sticks anything in her mouth right now she'll just gag. Then she curls up in the guest bed and closes her eyes and hopes she doesn't feel this terrible in the morning.

"Feeling okay?" MacKenzie tucks a blanket around her shoulders and maybe it should be infantilizing or something but it isn't. It's nice. 

"Not really," she says. 

"You will, eventually. We'll get breakfast and coffee tomorrow and you'll be all right."

Emma groans, because right now the idea of food, any food, is nauseating. "Yay."

MacKenzie laughs softly. "Get some sleep," she suggests. "I'll see you in the morning."

Emma burrows down into the pillow and pulls the blankets up to her ears. "Mac?"

"Hm?"

"I love you." Maybe it's not exactly the same way she loves her dad or her grandparents or the way she loved her mom, but she loves her, enough that _I love you_ doesn't quite cut it.

"I love you too, honey."

*****

Emma sleeps until almost noon, and when she wakes, her mouth is dry and gross and her head is throbbing. Why do people get drunk? She's having a hard time understanding, because none of this is fun. She's never drinking again.

MacKenzie is in the kitchen, chopping ingredients by the stove. "Hello," she says cheerfully. "I'm making breakfast. I normally eat breakfast out, you know, but I thought you might not be ready to rejoin civilization just yet."

"God, no." There's coffee and it smells good but she's thirsty, so she has some juice, first. "What are you making?"

"Egg white omelets with spinach and tomatoes," MacKenzie says proudly. "And I went to the market while you were asleep and got some fruit and some really good bread for toast. Do you want anything else?"

"No, this is good. Really good. Thank you. You totally didn't have to do any of this." Emma's idea of an omelet is more like bacon and cheese than spinach and tomatoes but she's not going to be rude when MacKenzie's going to all this trouble. "I can make the toast." She slices and butters the bread and nibbles on some fruit while MacKenzie makes the omelets and then they sit at the counter together to eat. (The egg white omelet is not as good as what her father makes, but it's not bad, either.)

"So, I wanted to talk to you about last night," MacKenzie says.

"I was dumb and totally deserve a lecture," Emma says, sighing. "Just please don't tell my dad." She doesn't really want a lecture from MacKenzie, either, but she wants one from her dad even less.

"I won't," she says, "but I _do_ want to talk to you about going out to parties. Did you go alone?"

"No," Emma says, poking at her omelet. "Not really. I mean, we had rehearsal and I went with some of them… I just don't really know them and they were sort of all passed out when I left." Or otherwise occupied, ugh.

"You should always go with someone you trust," MacKenzie says. "Know where you're going, how you're getting home, and never accept a drink from anyone if you haven't seen it poured. Better yet, pour it yourself or open your own bottle. Stick emergency money in your shoe or your bra if you don't have pockets. You shouldn't _have_ to do any of these things," she adds. "And I want you to have a good time. But I want you to be careful and I want you to be safe while you're doing it."

"I know all that stuff," Emma says. "I was just… kind of mad and I wasn't thinking and it was sort of last minute."

"What happened?"

"I… kind of had a fight with Molly. It was… ugh." If they're going to talk about this, she needs coffee. She gets up and pours herself a cup, putting in extra sugar, and comes back to her stool at the counter. "I think I want to go back to Oregon next year. I don't like it here as much as I thought I would. I guess my dad probably told you I went to talk to someone in advising there when I was home for spring break."

"Mmhmm, he told me."

Which means she won't have to explain everything to MacKenzie and that's a relief. "I didn't tell Molly about it and she sort of found out by accident and I guess I… I don't know. I guess I hurt her feelings."

MacKenzie is thoughtful for a moment, eating her toast, then says, "Emma, who is your best friend here in New York?"

"Well, Molly, I guess."

"Then you definitely hurt her feelings. I know you didn't mean to," she adds, before Emma can object. "But if you consider each other your best friend, and she didn't know you were even thinking of leaving, then I'm sure she felt shut out and hurt, especially if she found out by accident. It probably felt like you were hiding something from her, or even that _she_ is part of the reason you're not happy here."

"But she _isn't_ ," Emma says. "I mean, sometimes I feel a little smothered but… we mostly get along. More than with anybody else. And I like having her for a roommate." They have fun together, they work well together, and honestly… other than the occasional mother hen moments, Emma really can't think of anything she _doesn't_ like about Molly. 

She's not sure why it took until now to realize that.

"Then keep her in the loop with your plans. If you're leaving, she'll want to find a new roommate and that might be hard for her. Spend some time with her so she knows that she isn't the reason you're leaving. Just don't forget about her, all right?"

This is one of the reasons she loves MacKenzie, Emma thinks. She has a way of putting things out there that just make _sense_. She wonders, sometimes, if the advice MacKenzie gives her would be the same advice her mother would give her, if she was here to give it--and then she thinks it's okay if it isn't, because even though she doesn't have her mom and her dad is three thousand miles away, she still has someone who cares about her enough to tell her what she thinks. "What do you think I should do about school?"

"I think you should talk to your father some more and talk to your professors here," MacKenzie says. "I want you to be happy. College should be about your education, obviously, but you should have a good time, too. Just remember you have a wonderful opportunity here in New York City that's completely different than anything you'll get anywhere else in the world. Don't give it up until you're absolutely sure."

*****

MacKenzie sends Emma home in a cab (she says she's not going to make her navigate the subway with a hangover) and when she gets back to the dorm, Phyllis and Rachel are watching TV in the living room. 

"Some girl came by and brought your wallet," Rachel tells her. "I think her name was Laura. She said you left it at a party."

"Oh. Thanks." Nothing seems to be missing, which is a relief. "Do you know where Molly is?"

"I think she went to practice. Did you really go to a party?" Phyllis asks.

"Yeah. It sucked." She's still sticking to that never-drinking-again thing.

Emma doesn't know whether Molly is practicing in the dorm or if she went to Kimmel, but on the off chance Molly's here, she goes downstairs to see if she can catch her. She's in one of the smaller practice rooms at the end of the hall and for a minute, Emma considers leaving and trying later, but Molly turns to pick up her water bottle from the piano bench and catches sight of her through the glass panel. 

Too late.

Molly opens the door wide enough for her to come in, but doesn't say anything. Emma squeezes into the room and sits at the piano bench because this room isn't really big enough for two people to stand in it comfortably. 

"I was going to tell you," Emma says. "And I didn't because… I guess I felt like if I told _you_ then it would be official and I wasn't ready for that yet. But I should have told you."

Molly nods and takes a sip from her water bottle. "Okay," she says. "Okay. It's fine." She pages through her binder and pulls out _Lullaby of Birdland_ , dropping it on the music rack. "Since you're here, we should practice."

It's an abrupt change of subject, but if she doesn't want to talk about it, then Emma doesn't want to either. "Sure. Just let me warm up a little." She lightly plays through the chords, improvising a little with each hand to warm up her fingers. "How's this tempo?"

"It's fine."

"Okay." Emma counts off and gives her an intro, but Molly doesn't come in on the cue and she stops. "Sorry, my fault," she says, even though she knows she played it correctly. Sometimes when you're playing with someone, it's easier to just take the blame for the mistake and move on, even if you didn't do it. "I'll do it again." Emma replays the intro and Molly misses the cue again, and when Emma glances up at her, Molly throws up her hands in frustration, her face red with the effort of holding back emotion.

"I don't want you to go," Molly says, her voice tight. "You're my best friend."

"It's not because of you," Emma says, and as the words come out of her mouth she hears how lame they sound, kind of like _It's not you, it's me._

"I know. I just--"

Emma slides over on the bench and Molly drops onto it beside her. "I haven't decided," Emma says. "But when I do, you'll know first. Well, I should tell my dad first, I guess," she amends. "Then you."

"Okay."

Molly looks miserable and uncertain, still, and Emma hates it. She hates knowing she's the _cause_ of it. So it's instinct that makes her slide her arm around Molly's shoulders and ease her into a hug, because as much as she hates hugging people, she hates _hurting_ them even more. And really, this isn't so bad; it's awkward because the bench is small, but Emma doesn't have the overwhelming sense of needing to let go immediately, like she usually does with anyone who isn't her father or MacKenzie. And that's nice.

"Are we okay?" Emma asks, when Molly lets go.

"Yeah," Molly says. "We're okay."


End file.
